Fenton Hardy's Sons
by DragonHeiress
Summary: What if Hardys' lives weren't so All American and perfect? What if that was all just a facade? And what happens when two boys have had enough...? Slightly AU.
1. Chapter 1

Hello all! This is my first fanfiction in the realm of Hardy and I'm experimenting by putting this out here. Go ahead and flame, I'm a pyro, so no worries. I actually wrote this monthes ago when I wanted a good howl and it's grown into this huge and long involved story. This is only the first chapter, and I have about a dozen others, which vary in length. It's slightly AU and it came to me when I wondered "Why aretheir lives so perfect? What if they weren't?"

To Be Fenton Hardy's Boys

It's funny.

Not funny as in it makes me laugh, but funny as in ironic or strange. Another kid at school today cussed me out, and he got me set to thinking about my life. And now I realize just what a hell my life is.

Joel: Hardy, you fing hole! John ain't going to college now, thanks to you! That scholarship he spent years working on? Worthless!

Me: I'm sorry it's your brother, but he shouldn't have been smuggling-

Joel: I've had enough of fing perfection infecting the rest of us. Didn't it occur to you, Frankie-Boy, that we might all not like you and your perfect all American guy attitude! A stereo type if I ever saw one!

I see now that in the center of all the swearwords, there was a grain of truth buried in the ash. Perfect.

He had no idea of the bitter irony he unleashed.

Oh, but to be Fenton Hardy's son.

It means a lot of things and almost none of them good.

It means that I have to be perfect; I can never once make a mistake for fear of what tabloid writer is currently haunting my dad. It's all about appearances. Every activity I take up, I have to master quickly, with seemingly no effort. I must always be well groomed. I must follow in my father's footsteps. I must show no fear or doubt, or any other emotion than calm, stoic calm. I must catch every criminal I set out to, or more bluntly, whichever criminal my father sends me after.

Ah, perfection. What a bitter word, so inadequate to apply to my life. Sadly, I'm Fenton Hardy's son.

Perfection. Yeah, right.

I'm SOOO perfect. I'm perfect in my looks, my friends, my girlfriend, my grades, my hobbies, my ambitions, my personality, and my family. And if you believe that, you're probably the same sucker who bought some swampland down in Florida.

Perfection is expected, demanded, or as a last resort, simulated; we must, after all, preserve the name of the family. I must willingly accept my role as the son of the world's most famous detective with grace. I must look humble and meek, while we go gliding by in our expensive cars, our designer clothing, and Rolex watches.

Oh sure, my good looks, I have. But that's on my own. Ugly people have no idea how easy they have it. They don't have to turn down dates from ambitious girls, who see me as an ideal target for their 'fortune' hunting. Ugly people don't have to deal with insults and jabs, such as 'pretty boy'. Ugly people can't be of Fenton and Laura Hardy's gene pool, of which I wish that I had never crawled out of.

Oh, and my perfect girlfriend. She's beautiful, she's brave, and I can tell her absolutely everything, right? All three are a matter of opinion and based on technicalities. She was my father's idea, right from the beginning. Oh, Call's pretty enough, in my opinion. Sure. But brave? I think she's just plain stupid. I think I hate her. Tell her everything? Sure, as long as it relates to the mall or her own beauty and courage and problems. Never once have I told her anything of importance. I bet if I asked her, she couldn't tell me a thing about MY personality. I could write a book on hers; titled: Me, Myself, and I.

My perfect friends, of course. How could I forget? They show up just in time for the danger to have passed, and just in time to flash their smiles to the news crews and get all emotional for the masses, so they could see how humble and grateful they are. Every last one of them was chosen by my father, and one or two by my mother, whenever she manages to tear herself from her mirror. They are a perfect blend of stereotypes, poor and wealthy, and all popular, and one or two not; just so we don't look conceited. Our conversations are scripted, our personalities pre-made, our relationships and rivalries specially chosen. I hate them all.

Oh, my grades. I get them effortlessly, with no studying or incredible effort. At least, that's what the public thinks. I have to study a lot, or when my parents don't assign me time for that on my busy schedule, I get passed anyway. No teacher in Bayport dares give me a bad grade, what with my father being such an important figure in our community. I bet I could doodle over my entire English test and get and A+ for creativity. It makes me sick.

I must be perfect in my hobbies. I must master Tai Kwan Do, Karate, or any other martial arts sent my way. I must be the perfect quarterback on my team, good enough so the recruiting colleges have a legit reason to offer me scholarships. I must be able to do all this with no notice or practice. I must be the star student, the star athlete, and heavens forefend if the coach isn't willing to adopt me.

I must be obedient, I must be kind and courteous, I must be a gentleman, brave, and virtuous. I must be the shining star, the smart one, with the logical thinking. In short, I must have no real personality of my own.

Ah, my family. So loving and kind, we're all so happy and have strong relationships with each other, according to the media. Not so, I have never heard anything so off target. My dad, I doubt if he cares about my brother or me at all,. I think somewhere along the line, he just didn't want to be a father anymore, and so now I am his publicity stunt. My mother; maybe she loves Joe, and me and maybe she doesn't. We must obey her without question as she smiles her hundred dollar smile at us, and pretend that she leads a normal life, while reveling in all her expensive clothes and jewelry. She's a Barbie doll to us, and nothing more. And dear Aunt Gertie, we all love her strict tongue and old fashioned manner. Not so. She is incredibly up to date with appearing old fashioned, and she rivals my mom for the Barbie slot.

My goal, I tell whoever is interviewing me, is to go to college, get a degree in criminal psychology, and then follow my father's career. Then I will marry, and have kids, before retiring early and living my life out in a mansion somewhere.. The end. I conveniently forgot to mention the hatred of my job, the multiple divorces, and the fact that I dislike children with a passion, as well as the mansion will probably be somewhere I don't want to live, such as next door to my parents. Of course, that isn't on the script anyway.

Oh, I like the detective work, but to be shoved into it, makes me want to rebel with all my might, mind, and heart. I sometimes feel that I'm betraying myself by liking it, even a little. I hate it all; I hate it!

I look at normal people on the street, and I envy them. They've had normal childhoods. They did not spend hours posing for the cameras, or being kidnapped for ransom since the age of four. They didn't have to risk their lives with incredible stunts, just so they could get the barest hint of approval from their fathers, who might actually love them. They've gone fishing, they've talked to their parents, they've fought, and they've even spoken out against the world, maybe. Their lives, were likely not fake but real and spontaneous. What I would give to be like them.

I used to pray for death, and I used to consider killing myself. I'd stand in front of the mirror and ask myself how I thought I should do it. Overdose? Shoot myself? But I couldn't do anything to hurt my light, the center of my life, the one good thing that I ever got about being Fenton Hardy's boy. (Okay, I know, it's kind of cheesy sounding, but it's true)

Joey, my baby brother. (And if he knew the word baby was used in that sentence, he'd probably kill me)

My earliest memory of him is just the same as my latest. Protecting him from the world, from my family, from anything that could hurt him. He's the one whose secret smiles I share; he's the one who loves me even though I'm NOT perfect. I don't have to be Mr. Flawless to earn his regard. I can tell him my deepest thoughts, and secrets, and who will understand or at least try to. I can hug him and laugh with him. I can be open and affectionate with him. I can focus all my energy and all my love on him, and I have never once regretted it.

I love my baby brother, more than I love my mother or father. I love him more than I love life, which is pretty cheap in my opinion. I love how his smiles light up his whole face, how he teases me without making the words hurt, how he grins and wisecracks. How he tries to tell me that it's gonna be all right in the end, that this Cinderella story will have a happy ending. I love how he is so open with his love for me, and how unabashed he is. I know that I have something special with him, something not many brothers have, and I'll go to hell and back again to keep it.

One day, I'm going to run away. I'll run as far away as I can, where no one has ever heard the name Hardy. Where Fenton Hardy can have no claim over him or I, for Fenton Hardy will no longer be in the picture. One day, I'll take Joe to a place where he can't be bothered or hurt by the media, where he can have a real life, a real house with a big backyard, where he can choose what dog he wants. Where he can find peace and happiness, because that is what I want more than anything in the world. Just to see him happy. And I mean really happy, not that false bravado he puts on day after day, which last ditch attempt at being cheerful.

To be Fenton Hardy's son. A burden in itself.

I wish I wasn't. I hate it, I hate it all. If Joey wasn't here, I'd kill myself. Of course it wouldn't matter; the family name would still weather it. That's still the sort of things you read about; how we just found out about the severe depression, the teenage angst, the bit of color I'd add to my family. The large funeral, my father 'grieving', my mother's hysterical and slightly theatrical sobs, my aunt's blank eyed, and hollow expression.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they would really be grieving. Maybe they would feel bad that their son or nephew just died. Maybe they would suddenly open their eyes and see for once what they had made me, what I had become, and what they had done to me. Maybe for once they would see themselves exactly as they are, not the way the media portrays them. Maybe they could manage to squeeze out a few sincere tears, maybe their loud sobbing would be real. Maybe for a moment, just a moment, they could find it in their hearts, deep down inside, the love or the heartache, to cry for me.

But I'm right.

There might have been, once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a newlywed couple who was being supported by the husband's job as a cop. And the couple had two children, two boys, who they loved dearly. And they were all untainted by publicity and wealth. But that is a fairy tale, a dramatic recreation of past events which are over and dead now, unable to be summoned back.

Tragically, I'm stuck in a circle. Yes, you read correctly, a circle. It's vicious, and uncaring, never to be ended (at least until Joe graduates) and it won't stop hurting me! It makes me sick to the bottom of my soul as I see how I'm trapped in it, like a hamster in a ball or a rodent in a maze. The circle begins with my pathetic life and ends with the fact I can't do anything about it.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, hello! Well, it's me again, spouting out a very short chapter! To make up for it's shortness, I'll double post, so there. Yep, Frank's still a wee bit bitter, and more than a wee bit AU. Sorry about that folks; I honestly hope I don't destroy your viewpoint on the Hardy Household. But what the hell, we all love angst, right?

To my anonymous reviewers-

Ragna- Thanks for the support. Yes, VERY bitter. It'll get a little better, I hope.

Halo- My buddy! Thanks for the compliments! I love it when people notice good grammar! I don't know if I'll be doing things from Joe's POV; I'm just really attached to Frank, for some reason. Maybe; the possibilities are endless.

Panther- What's up? Yeah, I'm sure the publicity thing did throw you, but I just can't see two teenage boys with a detective father do such stunts as they have done, get put in the paper frequently, and not attract the nation's attention. And my version of the Hardy Boys are very close. I warn you though; it may get cheesy.

Well, it's been awhile since I last wrote that, and it still is no less true, except…. Joe graduates tomorrow.

At long last, it's finally here! Soon, I can run away, be free to do what I want, when I want, with whoever I please. Joe will have everything he's wanted, and more! I don't care what it takes, we'll have everything there is to have: happiness. I'm going to take him so many places, and he's going to have so much fun and as he does, so will I.

But I'm scared.

Ironic, isn't it? I spend so much time and energy in waiting, and I almost want to turn back because of my fears and insecurities. I know I am stronger than this. I can BE stronger than this. I NEED to help Joe get out of here, at least.

But I'm just too scared!

I've never had REAL friends before. What if people hate me, and shun me? What if they tell me I'm a weird oddball and reject me as they would an alien. Definitely not one of their own. What if, in the end, I find myself all alone, with Joe running miles ahead of me on the lonely track of life and I'm left in the dust?

What if we can't get the fake ID's? What if the fake birth certificates fall through? What if someone sees us, and recognizes us? Not that they could do much to me; I'm eighteen, but Joey won't be, not when we run away. We can't wait until he's of age, Dad will expect us to go into business the minute we're eligible for college. I only made him stop from bothering me by saying I didn't want to leave my partner behind. It's true enough. What if the fake recommendations fall through, and the transcripts? What if we can't get into a college?

What if my dad finds me, and takes us back. He's made it clear that he has no intention of letting us go, ever. I don't think my mother would let us either, I mean, we make money, don't we? We're the best gimmicks ever, the best in America, I suppose. And she loves to go out with us, and be mistaken (politely) as our sister. Oh, how I would love to run from her and laugh as I do so. My satisfaction would be complete.

I just need to stop whining and focus. Urgh, but the fear!


	3. Chapter 3

It's been so long since I wrote last. Well, long for me. It's been two weeks, actually. I will not tell you how I feel right now, not until I finish telling you what happened. And I must say, not even I could have known what would have happened.

I woke up the next day, exhilarated beyond reason, apprehension in my gut. It was 6:30 in the morning and I was ready to begin the day. Today was the day, THE DAY! Tonight near seven, Joe would graduate and him and me would be on the first plane out of this god forsaken pit of doom. I was scared, nervous, and plotting a parting kick to my parents, but I was ready to make whatever I could from my worthless life and give Joe a new one.

I got out of bed and practically leapt into the shower. I stood there for a long time, just letting the hot water run over me, a million thoughts in my head. I was still trying to figure out where we would go. It's not like I could have gotten plane tickets beforehand, since someone might call for confirmation or last minute seating changes, or my dad might get suspicious with Joe's graduation drawing nearer and nearer. I just couldn't have risked it. We were doing this by wing.

I was thinking Mexico. I'm sure you know the drill; the convicts or bank robbers escape and head for Mexico. Well, they did it for a reason. I know from experience that if you get lost in Mexico, no one, and I mean no one will find you. That is, if you play your cards right. They'd expect us to go to Canada, it being so close and all, and we would have to disappoint them.

Then a horrifying thought struck me; what if they apprehended us? What if they figured we were smart enough to head for Mexico, not Canada? We'd be found, maybe arrested, dragged back in cuffs, and he'd-

It came to me then, the comprehension of what I'd just thought. He. This wasn't about running from the police (well, it was, but not as much). It was about running from my father. He'd always been the authority figure, the looming threat. This wasn't about leaving the police in the dust, it was about beating my father. It was about showing him that we are not action figures stuck in boxes that you can stick on a shelf and open for viewing.

Right now we were like dolls in a Barbie mansion, seemingly normal but with emotional complexes more deep and real than anything else. Suddenly my dad was the symbol of all my aggression, and suddenly playing with dolls was no longer a kids game.

I got out of the shower and dressed carefully. Good sturdy jeans, dark T-shirt, and a light sweater, not suspicious but not entirely normal. You never know when you might need to run, I reasoned. I stuck my wallet in my back pocket and as an afterthought, added two hundred dollars right next to my credit card. I might need it later.

I went downstairs and glanced at our very expensive clock hanging by the stairs, it probably cost more than most people's cars. 7:15. I sat down at the table on my father's right hand side, with my bowl of Cornflakes. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, to see if he was looking at me suspiciously. I was in a state of paranoia, where everything had the potential to send me into a heart attack. Luckily, he was hiding behind his newspaper, a good sign.

A few moments later Joe came down, yawning and running a hand through his hair, but underneath it all he was tense. I'd learn to read my baby brother, and I knew without a doubt if he was wondering if today was the day. I'd not let him in on my plans entirely, because I had the sneaking suspicion our rooms were bugged. But he did know that I was planning, and he did know that if it happened it would have to be around his graduation, before our father enrolled us in college and began to tie us down to Bayport, to him.

I would have to find a way to give him a message. I don't know how I'll do it, passing a paper would be suspicious and if we both sat there during the ceremony with big idiot grins on our faces we might not make it. I came to a hard decision. He would not know about it until the very last moment.

I don't know how the hell I got through breakfast, but I believe both Joe and I breathed a huge sigh of relief when my dad left to go to 'work'. Then I got up and kissed my mom good bye and left under the pretense that I had go do some errands (I later whispered into her ear, "I need to get Joe a graduation gift.") and she gave me a knowing look, but nodded her consent.

I didn't go get Joe a present since our escape could easily be considered one helluva present. I went straight to the library and got on one of their computers immediately and began to look up all the flights out of New York, not going on anymore pages than I did on any other. I planned to delete the history on the computer, but if they pulled it from the hard drive I was not going to make this any easier for them.

I headed home after an hour at the library and spent the day anxiously trying not to appear anxious. I felt the pounding of my heart, my lightheadedness, and my adrenaline flowing through my veins. I felt so scared, but I think that that was the strongest moment in my life. I was scared yes, I was terrified of what would happen if we were hauled home, but overriding that was simple knowledge that I had to do this. That I had to give Joe his chance. That if I walked away I would leave behind my one and only chance to have a happy life, free of a false sense of duty, nagging friends, the media, and most of all my father.

I say that day is my strongest, and that day I hated my father as though he was the devil himself. I hated him as the Jews hated Hitler. I hated him as the convict hates the cop, as the livestock hates the butcher, as the packhorse hates the driver. I felt the most intense hate of my life all in the space of an hour.

It died down eventually, as all things do, and as it died it dimmed into an overwhelming sadness and into the plaintive cry of a hurt soul. He was my father. He was supposed to love and protect us. He was supposed to take us camping, and fishing. He was supposed to talk to us about girls and becoming a man and puberty. He was supposed to show up at our football games without news crews and cameras. He was supposed to get angry at us, but remind us that he did it because he cared for us, not because we're trying to ruin him.

He never did any of that and when he did, it was false, for the cameras, to keep us happy until he got us home and howled that we were trying to ruin him on national television.

I used to wonder what was wrong with me; what I'd ever done to make him not love me anymore. Now I know that there is nothing wrong with me. He should have loved me. But he didn't, and I think there might have been something wrong with him. And now I know what it was. Greed.

But there was one thing I couldn't escape, no matter how hard I tried to bury it or deny it, no matter how hard I explained it away, it always came back with it's pure truth. I still loved him. As much as I hated him, despised him and wanted to ruin him, underneath it all was still that little spark of love that refused to be trampled.

We went to the graduation at five and Joe was as nervous as a politician hooked up to a lie detector. He kept shooting glances at me, and I returned them with the calm stoic look of someone who keeps missing the glances and of someone who is drugged beyond comprehension with something soothing.

We sat down and during the ceremony while they were calling the names of the students, I nearly broke down and cried. With stress, terror, and intense happiness I sat there in my seat willing my tear ducts to dry and give me the ability to fool the world; that I was just a happy brother, glad that his baby brother had graduated.

When Joe's name was called and he received his diploma I think I cheered the loudest, though it was hard to hear over the deafening roar. After all he was popular, had lots of friends, and he was the football star who was graduating a year early (but then again, so had I). Oh, and did I mention that he's Fenton Hardy's boy?

When the ceremony was over and all his friends and family rushed over to see him, I hang back, willing my emotions to calm, to give me the happy proud look of a big brother. When I got to Joe I hugged him and whispered in a tone so low I could have sworn that only dogs could hear it, "It's tonight."

And he gave me a look of such joy that I could not but help smile in return. He grinned and said aloud, "Thanks, Frank." Everyone assumed that I had whispered a compliment or told him how proud I was of him. If only they knew, I would relish the looks on their faces forever.

But now, looking back, I didn't hate Chet, Biff, Tony, and Phil so much. They all had important parents and had probably been pushed into friendship as much as Joe and I had. I thought about how if they hadn't been obligated, maybe they'd still be my friends or maybe they'd just be the kids you knew by sight but not by name. Maybe they'd have been mutual acquaintances whose names you could never seem to remember, and never cared if you did.

I was walking back to the car as everyone around me started to make celebration plans about partying and dinner, when my father pulled me aside. I was surprised but I fell behind a bit before turning to him. He had this intense look on his face and for a moment my heart leapt into my throat and I was scared that I'd throw up all over him and that he'd lock me up and throw away the key. I was certain that he knew my plans, that he knew my very thoughts and was preparing a counter attack and I was terrified that I'd break out into hysterics there in the parking lot.

"Frank," he began smoothly, showing no hint of stress, only of a burning knowledge that he could intimidate me. "Tonight was a good night. Joe graduated without any problems." He seemed to pause for a moment, and I could see him decide to skip the persuasive speech. I was obviously not worth it. I was only his son, not some colleague or politician in need of support. "Joe and you will be starting college soon, going out into the world of criminal justice." He pinned me with his cold brown eyes, the ones that reminded me dark quicksand. "Let's see that those plans stay right on track, eh son?"

I just stared at him, knowing that if I spoke my voice would crack, eventually I managed to squeeze out a "Yes, sir."

He stared at me for a long moment, then appeared to see what he wanted to see. He relaxed and began to walk towards the others, content in the knowledge that he could intimidate me.

I had to admit that he was right, that my intimidation was sincere. But that did not override my burning desire to be free of him. And so I would be.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry I took so long, folks. I promise to update when people get desperate enough to email me. (**grins sheepishly**) How's that for work ethic? Anyway, to make up for my lack of updates, I've smashed a couple of chapters into one. Enjoy!

We got home by about 11:20 and Joe promptly claimed that he wanted to go to bed. Even I believed it. He was worn out. He held himself limply, his hair was tousled, and somewhere along the line tonight he's lost his sparkle. He looked like someone who hadn't slept in a week and was running on caffeine and who knows what else. So dad let him turn in without question and I decided to stay up and watch a late night show, just so no one would be suspicious.

I was on the edge. My father openly declared he was suspicious. The slightest twitch, the smallest glance, the tiniest thing out of a normal occurrence could make him do something that could jeopardize my whole scheme. I was half tempted to not go through with it. In fact, I even began to tell myself that I was wrong, and that my life here wasn't so bad, and that I was plunging into misery and damnation. I got a grip on myself and managed to stay calm for another half an hour.

Eventually my dad turned in and I decided that that was a good time to agree and go to bed myself. After I heard him close his bedroom door, I grabbed a duffel bag and began to throw the things I needed. I realized that I had made a mental list in my head all day of what I needed. Clothes, money, pictures, ID, bank information, etc.

I did this all in complete silence. Only a bat would have known what I was doing: I had memorized every creak, every groan, every sigh that my room made and I knew how to avoid or muffle them. I was positive that Joe had done the same.

I opened my door with the slowest deliberation, feeling that this was one of the big ones. The moments of truth were running out and I needed to make my final decision. I crept to Joe's door and found that he was waiting behind it. He smiled at me and suddenly I knew that I'd passed this moment of truth. I could only hope that I made it past the next one.

We crept downstairs slowly and it took about a half-hour. We knew every alarm system and how to get by them, but it still took time. Time that I felt wasn't ours and would shatter any moment. Finally we came to the side garage door. It had a lock that required a password, and I realized that this was my final moment of truth, that after this it was sink or swim.

I punched in the password. Invalid Password flashed at me as well as a countdown timer that told me that if I didn't type in the correct one in under thirty seconds, the alarm would go off. I froze up and berated myself. Of course he'd change the password. I had to come up with it in twenty-five seconds or be caught.

Then suddenly it came to me but instead of smiling, I grimly punched in the numbers (which took me a couple of seconds). Password Accepted flashed at me and the door unlocked. I pushed it open and strode more confidently to the car. It was the password that decided me. It wasn't mom's birthday or their anniversary, not my or Joe's birthday, either. It was their current balance, he'd looked at the bank statement yesterday. That sent my anger to a boiling point where there was simply nothing in the world that could convince me to go back into that god forsaken house and play dolls with that--those people! I could not bring myself to call them family.

We climbed into our car, and quietly drove away.

I suppose that my father must have gotten suspicious, because he found out that we were gone way before we'd hoped, and he went into immediate action. He didn't call the cops or anything, because that would be embarrassing (heaven forbid). No, he climbed into his car and drove after us.

By this point, we had already reached the bank and I had emptied my account via the ATM. It was quite a sum, I'd been saving up for a year or two and we had our college tuition money in there to boot. I don't think I'd ever felt so empowered in my life. We were almost there, we were almost free.

And then it nearly came crashing down.

My father had found us.

As I was walking back to the car, he brought his car in front of me by about an inch (I feared for my safety, I REALLY did NOT want to get run over) and hurled his door open with such force, I thought it might fly off it's hinges. Knowing that he'd tackle me if I moved so much as my little toe, I just stood there calmly with my well-trained stoic look on my face.

I was anything but calm. My mind was whirling, my heart was in my throat and I was terrified that I'd burst out sobbing and screaming. We had come so far! We had almost made it! This wasn't fair! I WANTED JUSTICE! I was on the edge; I could have committed murder then, without realizing what I was doing.

He got out of the car with the speed of a bullet. He walked straight up to me, his eyes never leaving mine and grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me close to his face. His face was dark, and his eyes reminded me of a burning pit that had no ending except in misery. He was the symbol of all misery to me, simply because that was all he'd given me and I sure as hell was not going back to it. And Heaven help HIM if he thought he could change my mind…. Damn it, I was still terrified, despite my conviction.

He snarled, "Get in the car. Don't say a word, because I'm so mad I could kill you. Where's Joe? Get in the car."

As soon as he mentioned my brother's name, the source of my strength, I found boldness deep inside me that I hadn't known was there. I was still terrified (I was on the brink of wetting my pants) but I could talk to him now, tell him the truth I so desperately needed to tell. All it would take was a single word.

I looked deep into his eyes and said, "No."

Utter disbelief filled his face before he looked irate and ready to kill.

"I'm gonna-" he began, but I interrupted.

"Kill me? Fine, it would almost be a relief. But I'm not done with you yet. We hate you, accept it. You have given us nothing with needed, much less wanted. We didn't want clothes that cost more than most people's homes, we could have done without caviar, and we would have appreciated it if you had shown us one sincere emotion in all our childhood, not that you were in it much. We wanted you to care, for just one minute, about us. Our welfare. Not your bank accounts, not your reputation, and not yourself. We will never get that and we can accept that, but we are not staying in this hell hole." Having finished my rant and declaration, I punched him and he staggered back.

Who was more shocked at that punch, me or him, was not clear. The reason I didn't stop and throw myself on his mercy and plead forgiveness is that I knew that there was no going back now. Sink or swim. "Nor do we desire it any longer." I added, with no small amount of venom. "Good bye." And because I'm no fool (even though you might believe differently), I ran.

Joe had seen Dad coming and had pulled out of the parking lot not a moment too soon and had lain in wait, tensely watching the situation from afar. When he'd seen me punch Dad, he jumped into action (through his immense shock) and brought the car around to me and I jumped in (narrowly missing impaling myself on the door) and slammed the door after me. We sped off so fast you could hear the tires squeal angrily into the night. We could hear our father shouting after us, and I didn't appreciate the swearwords. Thanks dad.

We spent the night ditching my dad and the cops, weaving in and out of back roads and going into heart attacks every time we saw a cop car. There were no open confrontations, but we were still terrified that at any minute some joyous cop would pull us over, haul us in and collect his promotion. Occasionally we pulled over into the nearby woods to avoid what might have been a patrol car.

There was simply no time for sleep and Joe and me were beat. We didn't dare stop to sleep or get some caffeine, we could be recognized by anyone and no doubt that we'd be turned in. The Hardys were wealthy in money, power, and influence; someone could probably retire with the reward that was probably set on our heads. So we crawled on, reminding each other of the glorious life ahead and somehow we managed to keep going.

Finally we reached the airport at about six in the morning. Suddenly I wondered if we should have taken a bus. I mean, airports have much more sophistication security-wise than stations and my father had probably targeted every airport in the state.

Flashed with sudden knowledge, which flew into my mind from nowhere, I ripped open my wallet and tossed my credit cards. They were just too traceable. That cut down on our funds a bit, and on my revenge schemes revolving around the idea of very expensive and embarrassing purchases. Joe did the same.

While emptying my wallet I came across a piece of paper that I'd forgotten about for the better part of a year. It had a name and a number scrawled on it and suddenly I was struck with inspiration. I tugged Joe over to the payphones and showed him the scrap of paper. He raised his eyebrows and I knew that he was at his breaking point, so I began to explain.

"Look, I know he's a criminal, but he can help us. C'mon Joe, I don't mind the guy and he's got resources that we can use. He might even help us out."

Joe looked at me for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I guess so. Frank, I want this freedom more than anything in the world, but I don't want to become a criminal doing it. I've nearly turned back dozens of times tonight and I will if I have to start selling drugs or something." That last statement was delivered with a look of determination.

I gave him a look. "Don't worry, he owes us. And I have a feeling that he's cut back on the drug circulation since we rolled into his neck of the woods, so calm down."

Bart Hammer was a ringleader of a little small town gang. It wasn't a serious gang, as in the Mafia or a huge drug ring. Well, in his area he was considered pretty awful, but in Salt Lake City, Utah, how bad could you be? He'd only been doing some small time smuggling and drug dealing, with a few other illegal activities on the side. We had met him a little less than a year ago, and had agreed not to charge him as long as he cooperated and gave us the information we wanted. Dad didn't know about him, which made him ideal, as well as the fact that one of his side interests was making up fake ID's and other documents for illegal aliens and high school kids hoping to get into nightclubs.

I grinned to myself. This was a stroke of brilliance. We hang out in Utah for a few months while the search dies down, in the most unlikely place on the planet. Mormonville. Not that I have anything against Mormons, but seeing as they populate the entire state, I doubted we would be apprehended.

I dialed the number and waited a few minutes for someone to pick up. When I heard someone pick up the phone and blearily mutter in the phone, "What?" I seized the opportunity.

"Is this Bart Hammer?"

"Ya."

"This is Frank Hardy."

I suddenly heard the sound of rustling over the phone and suddenly Bart sounded much more alert and very anxious. "Heya, Frank. I don't care what anyone says, whatever it is your calling about, I don't got nothing to do with it and…"

"You sure as hell don't," I interrupted him. "Actually, I'm just calling in to collect a favor or two." I glanced at Joe. "We're flying into Salt Lake Airport and I need you to pick us up and we'll discuss the favor or two then. I'll call you when we get in." I hung up without saying good bye. It's always good to keep people like this on their toes, like you're in control, else they'll find reasons to play on your doubts and worm out of doing what you want them to. Bart was an amateur but he was no fool.

We went up to the flight desk and bought our tickets. I bought tickets to a different city, and I figured we could fly to Salt Lake from there. It might take them awhile to trace us then. I had a brief moment of panic when the person at the desk glanced at us and checked our ID's, but he quickly glanced back at his screen and I knew that he was just another bored employee who was pissed that he had to work such an early shift. Poor guy probably wasn't fully awake.

I went into another panic attack when the security guards looked at us as we passed through the metal detectors but they didn't seem to recognize us, which was a good thing, meaning that word of our great escape hadn't reached their ears. We had maybe a half an hour or two before an all outs bulletin went out, with some exotic explanation for our leaving.

We were just passing through and going up the escalators when my dad and his posse of cops burst in, looking about them wildly. They must have spotted our car and rushed in hoping they could stop us before we left. I began to swear violently, and signaled Joe that he should remain calm and pretend not to see them or know who they were.

Needless to say, it didn't work.

"Hey you! They're over there!" proclaimed one of my dad's cronies.

"Damn," I snapped and began to pull Joe up the escalator. We broke out full running and began to dart around people in the airport as quickly as we could, looking for our gate. I knew this wouldn't be the first time we had to do this, since we'd have to stop over in some other airport (Atlanta, I think) before we got to Salt Lake.

Soon the security guards joined the action and were racing after us when Joe suddenly spotted our gate. We dashed around the corner and to it, when we noticed that we'd startled a flight attendant that was asking to see people's tickets. She opened her mouth to yell and abruptly changed her mind when she saw Joe's pleading expression and my frightened rabbit one. Joe let out a whisper of "please…" using his big blue eyes to his full advantage, when she suddenly nodded and gestured that we should run on in. We handed her our tickets and we dashed onto the plane.

As we climbed onto the plain, we heard our father's rough 'don't mess with me' voice that's cowed the president before demand, "Which way did they go?" I was terrified that the attendant would put two and two together and direct him into the plane when we heard a cool female voice say, "That way."

Certain that we only had moments of freedom left we began to hyperventilate even as we heard a great many footsteps thud farther and farther away. We looked at each other and after calming our breathing, found seats and sat down as far away from the door as possible. I suddenly felt a burst of affection for that flight attendant. If I ever see her again, I shall promptly propose to her.

The plane trip was relatively short for a plane trip (only a few hours, even thought I'd managed to throw up twice on the plane, which I'd never done before) when we made a stop over in some major city, which I can't remember. (Even though I still think it was Atlanta.) I only remember that I kept looking around in terror, waiting to see my father make a dramatic entrance and grab us out of the crowd. My nerves must have shown because while Joe was getting us something to eat, the security guards kept glaring at me and watching my every move, which only tripled my intensity. I nearly threw up the burger that Joe handed me, and I felt nauseous for the longest time.

When we changed flights, I spotted an old friend I'd known a few years back. We'd kept his name out of an investigation report and he'd pledged his undying loyalty to us, seeing as we did save his life and his family's livelihood. I won't bore you with the details in case anyone ever reads this and tries to turn him in. So he was more than willing to get us tickets under an assumed name, no ID necessary.

My mind was whirling and I couldn't do anything about the negative thoughts that flicked through my subconscious.

Oh hell, he's gonna find us. We'll be dragged back in cuffs. We're gonna blow our chance. Why the hell did I think we could do this? We're still kids, practically, and we don't have a full plan. I have no idea where we're going to go after Utah. I don't want to live my life out there forever. I'm letting Joe down. We're going to fail.

Thoughts such as these were twirling through my head so fast I didn't have time to understand the full effect of the dread they could unleash.

I'd run away, hit my father, and I'd probably trashed his rep. There was no going back no matter how much I'd hoped otherwise, so I'd better keep moving along until I got where I wanted to be. Sink or swim. You're Fenton Hardy's boy after all; you should be able to handle this.

Finally it was time to board our plane and we got on, looking around furtively for cops or Dad, but none came and we left in relative peace. I knew that it was only a matter of time before dad figured out where we were going, and I hoped Hammer could supply a good hiding place.

We got off the plane at Salt Lake, feeling like we'd just run a marathon. We'd only caught the scantiest on naps on the plane, too full of nerves to get any rest. And our adrenaline had toned down a long time ago. The little caffeine we'd consumed at the airport had already worn off. We were exhausted, our energy almost spent. I was scared that I'd be too out of it to deal with Bart Hammer, so I had to stop and calm myself before I went to the payphones and called Bart.

"Hullo?"

"Bart?"

"Frank?"

"Yep," we said at the same time. We both laughed nervously. There was a long silence as I contemplated how to phrase this when Bart began to speak quickly.

"Look Frank, I'm already at the airport and I'll be by the baggage claims in a minute. We can go for lunch and discuss this then. 'Kay?"

"Sure, we'll be by the baggage claims in a minute. See you there." I hung up and rubbed my eyes. I looked over at Joe who looked like he might keel over with exhaustion at any given moment. I guided him over to the seats by the baggage claims and grabbed our duffelbags which we'd been forced to check on.

About three minutes later, Bart spotted us and came up to us, twisting his keys nervously looking at us in surprise. I assumed it was because we did not look like we were ready to talk business, until he flat out told us something that shouldn't have surprised us in the least.

He looked slightly panicked. "You guys are all over the TV and papers. 'Boy Detectives Turn Runaways' and 'Hardy Boys Make a Break For It.' The press is having a field day. There's a fifty thousand-dollar reward for any _information_ on your whereabouts. Most of the 'professionals' seem to be of the opinion that Frank is going through a delayed rebellious stage of some sort and got Joe to go along with it." He started to look around uneasily. "I really don't want to get involved. The police have never given me much trouble because I'm not worth much, but if I aided escaping Hardys I could get tossed in for more years than this is worth."

I had to persuade him for ten minutes to keep up his end of the deal and when I explained (unwisely) what I wanted, which within itself had the power to nearly send him into a cardiac arrest.

"Come on," insisted Joe, peevishly. "It's not like we're asking you to kill someone."

Bart looked at him incredulously. "You want me to give you a hideout, the documentation works, and my word that I won't turn you in and go into an early retirement? Are you insane?" I hoped he didn't expect us to answer that. He pulled into the McDonalds drive-thru. It was the only place he'd dare take us, in fear that he'd be recognized.

"Yes," I snapped once we'd had our food. "Or the cops might just seem to magically receive photographic evidence of a few non-confirmed Meth labs. Anonymously, of course." I knew I'd caught him there, since he knew that he couldn't weasel out of that one since he was guaranteed to get nailed with that one, where if he just hid us for awhile, there was a slim chance he couldn't get caught. I took a savage bite of my chicken sandwich.

He looked like he might be ill, and glanced down at his Big Mac with a certain degree of nausea. He seemed to age about ten years, which was odd, seeing as he couldn't have been older than twenty-five. His gray eyes seemed to dull suddenly and he sighed. "All right, but I'm not happy about this. Please, if you ever need something else again, go call someone else."

I almost felt bad for him, but I steeled myself quickly. This was our one and ONLY chance. No redoes, not take-backs, and absolutely NO second chances. My emotions were on the edge; I was on the brink of hope and despair. I felt ill and exhilarated. I was almost there, and soon we'd have the life we'd wanted. Not one filled with classy cars, beautiful girls, and a mansion. But a simple life that was ours to control and decide the outcome. I knew with certain assuredness that our new life would only be what we made of it.

I grinned. I'd have it no other way.


	5. Chapter 5

Bart took a deep breath. "Alright, I can handle the fake ID's and birth certificates in a blink of an eye. The social security numbers will take a little longer, maybe a few weeks, as will the high school records."

Joe and I glanced worriedly at each other, when I shrugged. It's not like we had other plans. We'd gotten this far on luck, favors, and charity. We couldn't afford to press it, but I knew we'd make it somehow. We always did.

Bart took a sip of his coke. "Look, I've got this old family cabin up in Big Cottonwood Canyon. You guys can hang there for a couple months if you need to. It's fairly out of the way, and nobody really lives there year round. They'll be people now around this time of year, so you'll blend. It's fairly well stocked and the power's still on." He groaned. "I'm gonna regret this, I just know it."

I grinned suddenly, feeling it bloom on my face. "Don't worry. The worst that can happen is prison."

"That's right," Joe supplied with a false enthusiasm. "It's not like you'll die or anything."

"Oh gee," Bart snorted. "Thanks. I feel so much better after those inspirational words."

On our drive up to the cabin with Bart's excellent directions on a piece of paper and in a borrowed forest green jeep which could still be driven despite it's many years of service, we drove up Big Cottonwood Canyon. Despite the tricky winding roads, the canyon was quite beautiful, with all the trees and flowers by the side of the road, and the bold rock formations turning colors in the fading light.

We passed a bumpy construction site as we passed, and I had to smile inwardly. That ought to throw off any followers, since the ongoing road was hard to find beyond that.

When we finally reached the cabin, we glanced at each other in disgust. It was a dilapidated old brown and white Dutch style cabin. It was plenty spacious, that much was true, but the outside hadn't been fixed up for thirty years, and that was a diplomatic way of putting it.

I glanced around and gave a loud 'humph'. There was even an outhouse. If I had to use that, heads would roll. Then again, could I really be picky? We were sort of on the run, I thought, noting a bronze bell and flagpole by the house.

We stepped onto the big brown deck, which seemed to be in fairly good condition, and went in the back door, which just happened to be the only door on the ground floor. We were mildly surprised to find that the first floor was still in good shape. Obviously it had been used during the years the outside had fallen to ruins.

The first floor was a large game room painted white with pictures related to hunting. It had a pool table, a few couches, a large entertainment system, and a self-playing piano. We found there was a kitchen off to the edge, which was up to date but had some interesting appliances I'm sure were used in my grandfather's prime. We opened the fridge to find that Bart must have called ahead and have it stocked, so we were okay on food for awhile.

Joe looked around and whistled. Pretty sweet digs for a guy like Bart.

We ascended the black spiral staircase that was smack in the middle of the game room, where it couldn't be missed, to come upon a second floor. It had a living room with forest green carpet, a TV, a balcony, and a few couches. Connected to that was a small kitchen that was pretty up to date, despite it's 1950's style. There were also two bedrooms, which had sheets on the beds next to huge wardrobes that were about my height and made of maple. And (Hallelujah!) there were working bathrooms with hot water.

The stairs, however, kept going up.

We came upon the third floor, which we both liked, merely because there was a huge glass door, which we noted the balcony had long since fallen from, that gave us a spectacular view of the mountains and construction site, both only about eight miles in the northwesterly direction. It had a small kitchen (a fridge, a counter, and a microwave) as well as a small bathroom. The small living room had two couches and had an old fashioned TV, but by the windows there were chairs around a circular wooden table. I noticed that by the window was a table with a computer on it. Score.

And there were yet more stairs, but these were small and wooden. They led to the loft. The loft had three rooms, with two beds in each. Two of them had windows, one did not and the whole place had a feeling of terrible claustrophobia. We turned back, to get a shock. There was a stuffed eagle perched right behind the stairs, it's wings spread wide and it's beak open in a show of fierceness, and you couldn't see it unless you were facing the stairs going down. We also noticed that there were huge bay windows that gave us and an excellent view of the driveway, which meant that our father couldn't surprise us, if he traced us here somehow.

We went back down to the second floor, where we both put our duffel bags in our rooms and unpacked. I put my clothes in the wardrobe, and then I took out all the papers and documents I'd brought, and put them on the desk that I hadn't been able to see from the doorway. I heard Joe unpacking as well, so I didn't bother him. When I was done I decided to put some disks by the computer for quick use, so as I past Joe's room I told him, "I'll be upstairs."

After putting the disks by the computer, I paused, my finger grazing the power switch. I instead decided to sit down in one of the chairs around the table. As I gazed at the side of the mountain, which had half it's side buried in rock, proclaiming it's imperfection rather than covering it with trees, something inside me broke. It was as if since I'd given myself no task to complete, my emotions had permission to burst forth like a breaking dam. I started to break down and cry with all my pent up emotions, chiefly being stress, fear, confusion, and uncertainty.

I don't know how long I sat there and sobbed, but at some point I felt Joe's arms wrap around my shoulders and heard his sobs echoing mine. We clung to each other, letting all our emotions out and fall back down to earth as we came to the startling realization that we were just two little boys with a half formed plan and nowhere else to go.

After we finished sobbing and our sniffles had died down, I suddenly realized that I felt much better. I'd had my vent, and now my mind was clear, and I was filled with a desire for a purpose, but more importantly, the desire to find one and embellish on it until I had a fully formed dream.

I looked over at Joe, and saw the beginning of the same determination shine in his sapphire colored eyes and I smiled at him. I turned to face him and took his hands in mine, as though I could pour some sort of strength into him by contact.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, so what do we want to do…"

After our talk I felt a whole lot better, and I also felt the familiar stress of planning and execution. I smiled in reflection of our conversation. We had tossed out ideas and desires wildly, some from our own minds, some from other people's experiences. We had made promises and oaths, we'd confided and discussed. And eventually we agreed not to discuss our actual events of leaving until a later time, when such things would not sap our confidence with their mere memory.

I think we both felt that at last, we were ready for life.

I was ready for life. And if I didn't get what I wanted, it would not be for lack of trying. Neither Heaven nor Hell could stop me from my goal, and heavens help those who tried. I was no longer Fenton Hardy's boy, he was left back in Bayport, existing only in the memories of those who knew him. I was ready to grab destiny by the tail and shape it to my desires and liking. And for the first time in my life, I was ready to live.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry, but I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this story. However, I do have some chapters already written up, so here's the next one, let me know if you want another.

The next few days were more relaxing than I'd ever dreamed they'd be. I had my brother, I had my freedom, and I had cable TV. I was set for life.

However, Fate had other plans for us.

Seeing as there was only so long that the news could stay on, we were able to watch TV pretty often. Nonetheless, we'd programmed the TV to change the channel whenever the news came on, so we could check for updates. It was on the evening news that they came back to our story. The pretty blond reporter shuffled her papers importantly before speaking.

"As many of our viewers know, Brother Detectives, Frank and Joe Hardy have recently made a break for it." A picture of Joe and me was shown. I recognized the picture; it had been taken last summer. It was a pretty good picture too; we were both laughing and playing football. I guess our parents were trying to give a sentimental vibe.

She went over some of the same obvious details that were in every other news report, before stating, "And tonight, we'd like to invite our audience to call in with their own opinions on this scandal."

I leaned back and Joe grinned at me from across the room. "So?" he asked "tonight, are you a depressed angst driven teen yearning for freedom, or do they think you have multiple personalities?"

I laughed and gave my attention to the TV. This should be good.

The reporter piped up. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Hi, this is Kathy from Michigan," the crackly voice stated. "Personally, I think it's a shame that these boys are being hunted like this. Obviously they had a reason to do this, and it must be a pretty good one."

The reporter looked intrigued. "Why do you say that?"

The woman over the phone laughed. "Think about it. Fenton Hardy has the most up to date security measures to keep out intruders, to alert the cops, and to get information on anyone in seconds. For two teenage boys to elude every cop in the country? Extreme preparations had to have been made. They must have been planning this for months…."

The reporter quickly signed off. "Well, that definitely gives us something to consider. Next caller?"

We listened for a few minutes, before it got boring. Some old stuff, different wording. People called in to say how sorry they felt for our parents, how emotionally unstable I must be, how Joe was probably blindly following me, etc. I was about to change the channel when another caller phoned in. I hesitated, hoping for another sympathetic caller like Kathy.

"Um, hi." The man sounded nervous. "Look, I'm in Cottonwood Canyon right now, and I'm not sure who to call. The police, the state police, or the FBI? 'Cause the Hardy Boys are staying in the cabin down from mine, and I'm positive it's them…."

I froze in horror, and Joe dropped the bowl of popcorn he'd been holding. It toppled onto the floor and spilled it's buttery bounty on the carpet. I was paralized. I quite literally could not move. I could only meet my brother's wide eyes as the man continued.

"Yeah, uh, they're driving a green jeep and I've got the license plate number written down. It's um, 879 WXM and I haven't seen it for a few days, actually…" The reporter looked as though all her dreams were coming true, live, on national television.

I leapt up as though struck by lightening. I don't know how the guy recognized us in UTAH but I knew one thing: we had to get out, fast.

"Joe," I barked. "Pack. Now."


	7. Chapter 7

We both dashed up the stairs, leaving the TV on, the stairs shuddering under the impact of our running. Joe flung himself into his room and began to stuff things into his duffel bag with a speed unknown to mortal man. My greatest concern lay upstairs sitting next to the computer. I snatched the files from their place next to the monitor and shoved them into a bag.

I happened to glance out the window and caught a glimpse of a silver Toyota Matrix pull up in front of the cabin. A woman got out and jogged to our door and knocked. From this distance, I could she that she was tall, blonde, and possibly anorexic from the size of her waistline. In short, like a supermodel. She fiddled with her keys nervously and I bolted to the second level.

"Joe, there's some woman outside," I snapped, grabbing my duffel bag and tossing things in it at random. "She doesn't look like the cops."

"A reporter?" he asked, zipping his bag. He looked up at me quickly, and we both telepathically communicated the strong urge to hurry.

I shook my head. "No, she'd have camera crews here if she was. Not to mention most reporters don't dress in designer jeans and tanks tops." I finished filling my duffel bag and we both flung ourselves down the stairs only to be brought up short by the woman letting herself in with the key.

"You two Frank and Joe?" she asked.

Joe, who was standing wide-eyed behind me, suddenly narrowed his eyes and snapped, "No, I'm John F. Kennedy and this is my cohort Elvis! Can I help you?" He eyed the twenty something year old suspiciously.

She rolled her eyes obnoxiously. "Whatever. Bart told me to keep an eye on you, and right now, I have to get you guys out of here." She turned back to the door. "Can we take your car?"

I scowled. "Assuming the guy who reported us didn't get our liscense plate number and our car's description."

She blinked, her heavily make-up encrusted eyelids moving surprisingly fast. "So that would be a no?"

I wanted to shoot Bart. She clearly wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree.

She stuck up her nose and stared down on us. "We better hurry, you know. A team has been dispatched to look into 'the concern'."

Well this was going fast. I blinked and asked, "What? How do you know?"

"I watch the news, like the rest of the world. Come on."

We followed her, not having much of a choice in the matter, only half listening to her rattle on about how we better not track mud in her car. We climbed into her car and I had to grip the sides of my seat in order to steady myself when she suddenly floored it. The whole car bounced around the curves of the road and several times I swore we would fall into various ditches and over cliffs.

"Sorry," she smirked. "I drive fast." She sounded like she was quoting a movie.

Joe righted himself. "Who are you again?" There was a certain amount of distaste in his voice.

She grinned, "Libby. Bart asked me to keep an eye on you because I have a cabin (or four) of my own in the area."

"And why are you helping him?" I inquired, eyeing her warily. Was I potentially looking at a girl who worked in a Meth lab? Did she smuggle drugs or firearms? Behind this shallow exterior, was she a contact, or a middleman, etc?

She shrugged disdainfully. "We date, that's all."

I raised my eyebrows. She dated Bart? Was she really that dumb. I should have known; she was either the sex kitten or the mistress. How the hell did Bart hook up with her?

She noticed my confusion and smirked. "Mind you, this was back when I thought he was worth a lot and my career was just starting out." She sniffed. "Having got to know him, he isn't all that good looking or rich." She paused, and added as an afterthought. "Or nice."

Even though we were out of the cabin and in a getaway car, we were still really tense because we passed at least twelve cop cars. Finally it got to be too much and I asked, "Where are we going?" So far I had been in too much disgust with Bart that it had not occurred to me to ask.

She answered, "Provo. Bart has your fake ID's and stuff there. Not to mention there are a ton of car dealerships as well as Bart's 'employees'." She said it as though it really made a difference. Sorry honey, a drug dealer is a drug dealer." Still, this is the Mormon State so it's probably not going to compare to your East Coast gangs and all."

I didn't respond. Provo? Wasn't that southeast of Salt Lake City? My brain whirled with the sudden change in plans; not that we'd had any before.

It took forty five minutes to drive to Provo, and me and Joe instinctively crouched low in our seats when Libby turned onto the freeway.


End file.
